Food as Love

Content warning: eating disorders, body image, and restriction.

My mother is folding wonton in the kitchen. She takes the thin wrapper in her hands, places the filling—ground pork, lap cheong, water chestnuts, green onion—in the middle, dabs the edges with water, and folds it into the shape of a small bonnet. Be careful not to add too much filling, she tells me, or the wrapper will break when we boil it. But add as much as you can, because more filling makes it taste better. She learned this from her mother, my grandmother, who was a true master in the art of stuffing wonton to the brim. Grandma always added too much filling, my mother says, her wonton would almost break. But they tasted best that way. 

People—like wonton—are happiest when they are full. That is what my mother taught me, what her mother taught her. After every meal, my mother would ask me: are you full? Yes, I would answer, I’m full, thank you. And she would smile, pleased to hear this, because fullness meant so much more than physical satiety—it meant nourishment, contentment, comfort, security. To be full was to be cared for. To be full was to be loved. 

Food, as the source of fullness, was equally symbolic: as in many Chinese families, it was the language we used to express love. Instead of I care about you or I’m worried about you, my mother would say I bought some lychees from the store, have some more rice, or I’m making wonton for dinner tonight. The best medicine for all the sickness and sadness of childhood—the foolproof cure for either the sharp pangs of heartbreak or the aching bones of a fever—was a hot bowl of red bean soup. When I would run to my bedroom in tears after one of our many arguments, my mother would bring me a bowl of fresh strawberries—I’m sorry—and I would silently accept it—I’m sorry too. 

After every visit to the doctor—always a source of dread and tears—my parents would take me to our favourite Chinese bakery, where the bitter taste of medicine would instantly dissolve beneath the sweet scent of warm buns and handmade pastries. You can choose whichever one you want, they would say, and I would turn to the endless sea of options before me. Vast selections of buns lined the walls: bolo bao with their crumbly tops and pillowy-soft interiors, cha siu bao stuffed with slow-roasted pork, cloudlike steamed mantou. Beside them was an array of pastries: flakey wife cakes filled with smooth winter melon paste, buttery egg tarts with golden custard centres, and a breathtaking assortment of mooncakes, their delicate crusts stamped with intricate patterns and wrapped around dense fillings of red bean paste, black sesame paste, lotus seed paste, and wu ren. 

But for me, the indisputable highlight of the bakery was its eye-catching display of celebratory sponge cakes. Unlike the decadent cakes of Western culture—which, while undeniably delicious, are almost too rich for the East Asian palate—these cakes are hardly heavier than air. Their lightweight dough is complemented by soft whipped cream and fanciful arrangements of fresh fruit. For my family, these were the standard desserts for all celebrations: nothing could rival their delicate sweetness or delightfully airy texture. And so, each birthday began with a trip to the bakery, where we would choose a cake according to the preferred fruits of the celebrant. For me, that meant cakes with plenty of strawberries and absolutely no pineapple. For my mother, it meant cakes covered with thinly-sliced mango. 

This is how I remember my childhood birthdays: intimate family gatherings, red envelopes, and slices of strawberry-topped sponge cake. There were so many words hidden within that cake: happy birthday, we love you, we will always be your family. And while I savoured its taste—the cloudlike sponge with its hint of vanilla, the silken cream, the sweet strawberries—it was those words, whispered to the heart with every bite, that mattered most.  

But one year, that beloved cake became something far more sinister: a source of fear, guilt, and dread. As I watched my parents light the candles, flames flickering gently in the evening light, all the warmth and happiness of my childhood vanished. And as they smiled and sang—their joy so bright it hurt—I wanted nothing more than to disappear. And when I inevitably asked for a smaller slice—I’m not very hungry, I’ll just have a bit—I watched as sadness dampened their faces. Are you sure? You don’t want a little more? I thought this was your favourite—what happened? I could never give them an answer. And as I cut my fork through the too-small slice of cake, I realized how much I hated myself—hated myself for eating, hated myself for not wanting to eat, hating myself for being scared to eat, hated myself for hurting my family, hated myself for being unable to stop. I wanted to cry, scream, crawl out of my skin, burn myself alive. Instead, I forced myself to swallow—and tasted only bitterness.

My mother is folding wonton in the kitchen. She nestles the filling into the centre of the wrapper and folds it over, sealing it like a love letter. She learned this from her mother, who learned it from her mother. She taught it to me. When did I forget? When did I forget how to see food as love? When did I unlearn my own culture? My mother looks at me and says: I’m making wonton for dinner tonight. I turn away and answer: I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well, I don’t think I can have any. I leave before I have to see her face fall. 

I can’t bear to recount all the times I’ve rejected offers of food—of love and care and connection—from my family. I can hardly stomach the memory of my own psychological surgery, how I dug into my mind and tore out the roots of my culture, cut out my memories, erased the language of my childhood. I wish I could forget the years I spent trapped in a self-imposed exile, a stranger in my own home, a prisoner in my own body. All the things I said: leave me alone, stop bothering me, you can’t force me to eat. All the lies: I’m not hungry, I already ate, I just don’t feel like it. 

Why did I refuse the love and care of my family in favour of the twisted pleasure of starvation? Why did I choose the food prepared in a cold hospital cafeteria—handed to me on a plastic tray to be consumed under threat of a nasogastric tube—over the meals made in the warmth of our kitchen? Those paper cups half-filled with lukewarm oatmeal, containers of pre-sliced fruit, cold pieces of bread—they were all empty, devoid of the love with which my mother had stirred her red bean soup, steamed rice with lap cheong, chopped ginger, and green onion for jook. 

My mother is folding wonton in the kitchen. She looks at me, her gaze heavy with unspoken concern, and says: I’m making wonton for dinner, will you have some? I open my mouth, ready to say no, but then I remember. I remember all the times I’ve refused, the times I’ve turned away, the times I’ve rejected the love I was offered. And then, like a series of half-faded photographs, I see the warmest memories of my childhood: the family dinners gathered around our crowded table, the lively chatter over sounds of clinking ceramic at dim sum, the trips to the bakery, the sponge cakes. Silence hangs in the air, my whole life in the balance until I answer—yes, I’ll have some. I promise. And I mean it.